Sunday, Bloody Sunday
by CSIBakerStreet
Summary: John visits his friend's grave regularly and so does Sherlock. One day John doesn't show up, which urges Sherlock to make a decision.
1. Chapter 1

**Winter**

It's a cold Sunday morning. It's the kind of cold that creeps into your bones and freezes every fiber of your body. The wind bristles through the dead leaves on the trees around him and there are heavy, dark clouds in the sky promising snow.

But he doesn't care; he doesn't even feel the cold, for he is waiting. John would be there soon. He would come. He always does, no matter what.

Sherlock Holmes stands in the shadow of the trees, a save distance between him the grave.

_His_ grave.

He had to die to save his friends, but he can't quite leave John. This was a risk he was willing to take. He needs to see him. Again and again. See that John Watson hasn't forgotten him. See that he is alright, that he's still hanging in there.

And then, out of nowhere, there he comes, slowly making his way to his best friend's grave, his eyes sad.

_I wish I could tell you that I'm still alive, John._

John stands still next to his grave, just staring, when a sudden gush of wind makes him wrap his jacket closer around his body.

_I'm right here, John. So close. Just turn around, I'm here._

Sherlock can see him mumble something. He always does that. He mumbles. If only he could hear it. He fights the urge to sneak a little closer.

The first snowflakes begin to fall. Sherlock doesn't move. Neither does John.

Everything is still for a while and they both just stare into nothingness until the slight snowfall gets heavier and soon big and icy snowflakes whirl all around them. After what seems like an eternity, John slowly turns around, the snow slowly soaking his jacket.

_John, just look over here. I'm here._

But he doesn't. He doesn't see him, only a short distance away, hidden by the shadows of the trees and the grey curtain of snow.

And then, he walks away, away from _his _grave, wet to the bone and an unreadable expression on his face, leaving a trail of footsteps on the white carpet on the ground.

**Spring**

When spring comes, flowers start blooming all around the cemetery. It's another Sunday and once again, he's waiting. There's a light breeze in the air and the graveyard lies peacefully, only disturbed by some squirrels chasing each other around the trees and his footsteps on the grass. Sherlock leans against a tree in the shadow, the same spot he always takes to observe.

The sun is blazing down, not a single cloud in the sky. It could be a beautiful day, but the second he sees the agonized look on John's face, the peace is gone and replaced by sheer despair. Sherlock fights the impulse to forget all of his plans and just run over to the grave and show him that he is, in fact, still there. Not dead and buried, but living and breathing.

_I'm alive, John. Don't worry anymore._

But he doesn't. He can't. There are important things to be done.

Sherlock can see the limp has gotten worse since the last time.

_Oh John, what have I done? I'm so very sorry._

John sighs deeply, Sherlock can almost hear him thinking. His own thoughts wander back to his tiny flat he had recently moved into. It's empty with no one to talk to.

_I wish I could talk to you. I miss talking to you, John. Sometimes I do and then I remember that you're not there. I wonder if you do the same._

He doesn't even have his skull to keep him company. Not that the skull could replace John. He had always been alone for most of his life, always the freak, the weirdo, the one you better stay away from.

And then John had come along and everything had changed.

His only friend.

The only one he ever had.

The only one he ever needed.

And he had left him.

**Summer**

This Sunday John brings Mrs. Hudson. She hadn't come here in a while, but she always brings flowers, just like today. Always not his housekeeper. A smile twitches across Sherlock's lips.

They talk for a while and smile. Again, he's left wondering what they are talking about.

Mrs. Hudson then pats John on the shoulder and turns, probably to find some water for the flowers, but he could care less, because the smile on John's face fades quickly and is replaced by the sad look he wears every time he comes here.

_You need to let me go, John._

John comes here too frequently, he's not letting him be dead. Not that Sherlock wants him to. John believes in him.

_Still, John, you need to let me go._

This time, Sherlock is the first one to leave and to turn his back on the grave, yes, _his_ grave. He walks away from John, away from his friend.

He doesn't see that John briefly looks in the direction of where he had just stood a moment before, then shaking his head and quickly smiling at Mrs. Hudson who's on the way back to him.

**Fall**

The leaves crunch under his feet as he unhurriedly paces to the oh so familiar tree that always hides him from John's sight. It's getting colder with every passing day.

He looks around for a few minutes, but the graveyard hardly ever changes. Boring. Nothing new to deduce.

Anyway, John would come any minute now. A light drizzle starts coming from the skies.

Half an hour ticks by and Sherlock begins to feel uneasy.

_Where are you?_

One hour.

_But John, you always come._

Two hours.

_Did you forget me, John? I know I wanted you to let go, but I didn't mean it._

Three hours.

An unknown fear starts nagging at him. John really didn't come. For the first time the graveyard stays empty.

Sherlock makes his way back to the street and calls a cab.

"Where to?", asks the cabbie.

"221B Baker Street".

* * *

><p>thanks to my friend Eve for suggesting the title, it may or may not be a song title.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

As soon as the cab starts moving Sherlock starts to doubt his decision. He had been dead to John, dead to the world, for over a year after all. He had seen how hard it had been on John, what his friend had been through, how much he had suffered. And now he would just show up in the flat like none of it all had ever happened.

But it was not just doubt he felt raging though his mind, it was also excitement. To talk to John again. To see him again. Not to be alone anymore.

He had been alone for most of his life. The freak hadn't been in need of friends. Meeting John, however, had been different. John hadn't seen him as a freak, hadn't told him to piss off, but he had admired him, encouraged him even. And most importantly, John had been with him until the very end. John hadn't left him. Put up with the violin-playing in the middle of the night, the days filled with silence, all the times Sherlock had been at his worst. John had been there.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

_Don't_ – MH

Sherlock grunts. Mycroft is fast, way too fast.

Of course, the plan. Their carefully made plan. John would be safe as long as he was dead. Sherlock had – with his brother's help – successfully taken down a great deal of Moriarty's network, but there is one missing piece and Mycroft is frantically searching for it. The last piece to solve the puzzle. Sebastian Moran.

_I mean it –_ MH

He is right, obviously. Sherlock knows that he should tell the cabbie to take him back to his own flat. His empty flat. All the hard work would be destroyed because his feelings betray his mind, because he is selfish and can't live with the thought of John forgetting about him.

Sherlock's mind is racing while the lights of the city are rushing past outside the window. He's working out every possible scenario that might await him, trying to figure out a plan, what to do if Moriarty's last killer finds out that his body is not rotting away six feet under the ground, what to say to John, how to explain, oh, how could he ever explain. What could he say? There is nothing. His oh so brilliant mind doesn't do apologies, doesn't know how to react to emotions, doesn't know how to deal with all the things he's feeling. Feelings. Such a completely new sensation.

They're getting closer and closer to Baker Street.

_Sherlock, what do you think you are doing? _– MH

He ignores yet another of his brother's texts. To be honest, Sherlock doesn't quite understand himself. All he knows is that he has to get back to John right now, because he can't stand being alone any longer. He can't let him let go, not now. All these months he had known that John was still out there, thinking of him, coming to his grave and that had kept him going.

Now he can't be sure of that anymore. Why hadn't he been there today?

_You know, there are ways of stopping you_ – MH

Sherlock snorts. As if he would dare.

Sure, there is Mycroft, _he_ knows that he isn't dead, but Mycroft doesn't argue with him about whose turn it is to buy the milk, Mycroft doesn't complain about his experiments, Mycroft doesn't listen to his deductions.

No one can replace John.

Almost there.

When the cab stops in front of the familiar black door, Sherlock feels his phone vibrating in his pocket again, but this time he chooses to ignore it.

He is too close now.

There is nothing Mycroft could say to hold him back.

Nothing to keep him away from John.


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

Sherlock nearly jumps out of the cab when it comes to a stop next to the familiar black door. The cabbie throws a confused look in his direction, which quickly turns into a delighted one as the tall man throws way too much cash in his hand. Sherlock couldn't care less about the money, he was about to see John.

He lets himself in, he still has the keys. After all this time, he still runs around town always with the keys in his pocket. He shakes his head at the thought.

No sound comes out of Mrs. Hudson's flat. Probably fell asleep while watching some ridiculous chat show on the telly. Again, he doesn't really pay attention. John.

Sherlock runs up the stairs and finds a dark and abandoned flat. Only darkness and silence there to greet him.

Confused, he switches the light on and takes a quick look around. A half-empty cup of tea sitting next to John's favourite chair. Today's paper lies crumpled on the arm rest. John's jacket is still there. No signs of a struggle. Must have left in a rush.

_What is going on? John, where on earth are you? Where did you go?_

After pacing back and forth for a while, trying to figure out what could be going on or what he could do, he eventually comes to rest in his own chair, which had been deserted for so long. Minute after minute ticks by and there is no sign of the army doctor returning to the flat.

He takes his phone out of his coat's pocket and finally reads Mycroft's last text.

_I also meant to tell you, he's not home_ – MH

Blasted Mycroft. For the flash of second he plays with the thought of asking Mycroft whether he knew of John's whereabouts, but he decides not to, he doesn't want to give him that satisfaction. He would wait. He had waited for what now seems like an eternity, it wouldn't be too much longer.

Sherlock's glance begins to wander.

His violin is still where he left it over one year ago, yes, he was rather sure of it; it was in the exact same place. No fingerprints on the fine layer of dust, as if John had been afraid to touch it. The skull stares down on him from his original spot. It looks like Sherlock had been here all this time, like he had never left, like he hadn't died.

Overcome by a sudden curiosity, Sherlock gets up and makes his way to his room. Everything is still there, some of his belongings are packed up in boxes, but other than that nothing had been changed. A rush of emotion sifts through him. The thought that John had never stopped believing in him slowly settles in. John hadn't let him go.

Sherlock's presence is still in every corner of this flat and it takes him a great deal of willpower to convince himself to stay put and not just run off to look for John. He would come back.

Still overwhelmed by all the thoughts and feelings occupying his mind, he leaves his room and slumps down in his chair again. Waiting.

* * *

><p>A few miles across town, John Watson has no idea what is going on in 221B Baker Street, he has his mind on other things. When he had gotten the call, he had actually already reached a point at which he thought that his day couldn't possibly get any worse. But his dear sister had taken it upon herself to prove him wrong.<p>

Therefore, he is now on his way to some shady bar in some shady part of London, on the lookout for Harry, who apparently is in no position to find her way home by herself.

Great way to spend a Sunday evening. Of course, he had had other things to do, important things, but obviously there's nothing better than life to ruin all your plans. Bloody Sunday.

With a sigh, John steps into the run-down bar, immediately seeing his sister halfway lying on the counter.

This is getting better and better.

"Come on, Harry, time to get you home." _So I can go home myself at last_.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks to you all for reviewing and everything… I always get all giddy when I get the notifications.<strong>  
><strong>And I'm really, really sorry, because I know that some of you are waiting for them to finally meet again, but this is way too much fun.<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

John drags his sister out of the bar and onto the dimly lit street. There's litter in every corner, graffiti spelling out obscenities of all kinds decorate the walls and broken glass crunches under every step they take. _Great place to get wasted, Harry._

Despite of being drunk to no end, Harry still manages to struggle a bit. She looks at him with wide eyes and slurs, "What are you doin' here? I was jus havin' a little fun".

"Yeah, you obviously were", John says, not even trying to hide the anger in his voice.

"How 'bout you jus let me go back, instead of spoilin' my night?" Harry tries once again to get away from John, but resigns when she almost falls.

Oh, of course, _he_ was spoiling _her_ night. There is only one thing he had wanted to do today, only one bloody thing. Visit Sherlock's grave.

But no, Lestrade had decided that it'd be a good day to come over and make an attempt to make John feel better, which had turned into Lestrade complaining about what a failure his marriage is. And obviously John had been too nice to send him away, not after all Lestrade had done for him in the past year. All the time he had sacrificed for John, although he had never asked him to, simply because he was kind.

And then it had already been getting dark, so he thought about going next Sunday instead, because it really wouldn't make too much of a difference. The call he had got fifteen minutes later had made the decision for him.

John sighs, frustrated and angry. He gets a tighter hold of Harry and they both stumble towards the main street. They pass a few other pubs, some people stand outside, smoking and staring at them as they pass. Some bloke, who sure as hell already had enough, laughs and asks why he even bothers to take that slut home.

A few minutes later John's knuckles are bleeding, but that stupid smartass isn't laughing anymore. No, definitely not his day. At least it helped a little to ease his frustration and Harry lets him drag her along more willingly.

As soon as they get to the main street, John hails a cab and shoves his sister inside. He tells the cabbie his sister's address and allows himself to close his eyes for a second, before turning his attention back to Harry. His thoughts wander back to the day he had gone to his very first crime scene with Sherlock, when Sherlock had deduced his sister's drinking habits just by taking a look at his phone. It now seems like it had been ages ago.

A sudden wave of emptiness washes over him. That's what it is like, it always comes in waves. It's like the tide, it comes and goes, but it always does come, only that it's less predictable. It surprises him in the most unexpected moments, like right now.

Now that he's here with his sister, trying to support her, but hardly capable of keeping himself together. _Get a grip, John._

He throws a quick glance at Harry, who is almost falling asleep in the seat next to him.

When they get to Harry's flat, John promises himself that he will check on her more often in the future. Seems like his life is not the only thing that had become an utter mess lately. He'd be beating himself up about this forever.

He half-carries Harry to her bed, makes sure she is in a safe position and takes a look around the flat. Dirty dishes are piling up in the sink, clothes are hung over chairs and some of the lights aren't even working.

John spends half the night cleaning up part of the mess and eventually dozes off on the couch when he gets too tired to keep his eyes open.

* * *

><p>In the morning Harry thanks him, apologizes, promises it won't happen again. John only nods – he had heard it all before, it's the same every time – and then he finally heads back to Baker Street, where he would go to bed and try to forget about the empty feeling that had been nagging at him since the day before.<p>

London is wide awake when he leaves, people are rushing about, hastily drinking their coffee before going to work, animatedly talking to someone on the phone, making deals, making plans and in the middle of it all there's John, feeling more than a little lost.

He buys a sandwich on the way home and drags himself up the stairs into the flat. He hadn't slept for long, and it clearly hadn't been long enough. What a night.

When he staggers into the flat, it takes him a couple of seconds until he realizes that something is off.

John looks around, confused, until he seems him.

_No, it can't be._

Is he hallucinating, because he didn't get a decent amount of sleep?

Right there, on the very chair he's staring at all the time when he's alone, the chair that is usually empty, lies Sherlock Holmes, curled up and fast asleep.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks again to all of you for reading<strong>**... give me more reviews, I love reviews**.


	5. Chapter 5

The sound of a plastic bag and its contents hitting the ground makes Sherlock jerk and suddenly he's wide awake. He had fallen asleep. God, no.

He scrambles off the chair in a hurry, stumbles to his feet and there he is, standing in the doorway staring at him in disbelief, whatever he had bought on the floor next to his feet. John.

He needs to say sometimes, _say something goddammit, _but he doesn't; he doesn't know what to say. John doesn't speak a word either, he just looks at him, doubt crossing his face, a glimmer of hope maybe, not quite able to grasp what is happing right before his very eyes.

The silence makes him anxious, so Sherlock eventually forces himself to speak. "John…", his voice is hoarse, not as secure and strong as it usually is. Recognition flickers across his friends face.

"Sherlock, what… how? _How_?" John is calm, always the brave soldier, so steady.

"Well, I was cheating death, so to speak", he tries to shrug it off, but Sherlock quickly realizes that this won't be enough of an explanation. "John, I…", his voice trails off. _Words, words, why would they leave him just now. _"John, why didn't come?"

"Wha… what? Come where?", John asks, still confused to no end.

Why are people so slow sometimes, this is something rather obvious. "To my grave, John. You always come, once a month on Sunday, but yesterday you didn't"

_Not good_. Sherlock instantly notices that this hadn't been the right thing to say. John takes a few quick steps towards him until they're face to face and now Sherlock can clearly tell how his friend is feeling. Angry.

"You… you were there all this time… And now you just pop in to complain because I didn't come to your bloody grave? I thought you were dead, you fucking idiot. I went to your funeral, what were you thinking? And… and what now? You're back, just like that? WOULD YOU JUST KINDLY ENOUGH EXPLAIN WHAT IS GOING ON?" While talking himself into a rage, John had started poking Sherlock with his finger.

"I'm sorry, John, I really am" Despite feeling extremely lost, as he has absolutely no idea what else to say, he also feels enormously grateful that he can talk to John again.

For about a second it seems like John is thinking about punching him, but instead he just shoves him with his finger again.

"Oh, you're sorry? Well, GOOD FOR YOU"

"John, I had to do it, he would have had you killed. I couldn't… I couldn't lose you", Sherlock finally says.

"YOU COULDN'T BLOODY _LOSE ME_?" _Apparently not good again. _"Did you even think about me for a second? I lost _you_, Sherlock. Do you have any idea how I felt all this time?", John grips the collar of his coat, almost like to make sure that Sherlock is really here and that he's not going anywhere, but Sherlock barely notices, for he knows all too well how John had felt. Lonely.

"I was alone as well… you're not the only one who lost a friend that day."

Now it is John who doesn't know what to say. The anger fades a little as he thinks of Sherlock, sitting somewhere all by himself, no crimes to solves, no one to share his brilliant thoughts with, but still, this was all too much. He feels his eyes stinging, and after silently debating for a few seconds if he should just let it go, the first tear rolls down his face.

"You have no idea how sorry I am", Sherlock whispers. The problem is, that there is nothing he could possibly say that would ever show how much he'd like to make it all go away, so they could both forget and be alright.

John nods, feeling numb, and slowly turns away from Sherlock, letting go of his coat. But Sherlock doesn't let him and, desperately wanting to comfort him somehow, pulls John in a tight hug. John, too surprised to struggle, resigns and buries his face in Sherlock's collar.

And there they stand, neither of them willing to let go of the other, finally reunited; the world's only consulting detective and his irreplaceable blogger.

* * *

><p><strong>Hey, it's me saying thank you again. I think I'll just leave it like that, it seems like a nice ending, what do you all think?<strong>

** It's been a pleasure to write for you :)**


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